


our numbered days

by PreludeInZ



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Introspection, Minor Angst, Romance, relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-18 13:03:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4706969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PreludeInZ/pseuds/PreludeInZ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miss Pauling doen’t have to go to ground often, but sometimes in the long stretches between skirmishes in RED and BLU’s endless turf war, her own assignments require her to assume another identity for a period of time, for the purposes of gathering intelligence or covert surveillance. Usually she gets a small apartment and lives a quiet double life, pretending to be a student or a librarian or something similarly unassuming. One summer in Boston, she lets herself pretend she’s a girl on vacation, with a summer internship and a (temporary) summer romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. temporary

**Author's Note:**

>   
> [valoscope](http://valoscope.tumblr.com/) asked:
> 
> [Imagine Pauling's been hiding at his Ma's house for a while, and its Sunday and everyone's gone out to church and Pauling thought maybe she'd dress up and meet Ma there as a way to say thanks for helping her out but Scout's just rolled out of bed with the wifebeater he slept in and the pants he threw on as a courtesy to the female guest and then they meet in the kitchen for some sort of serious talk about these growing emotional developments and they leave through that hallway AND GIFS HAPPEN](http://1fort-2fort-redfort-blufort.tumblr.com/post/117836364745/imagine-paulings-been-hiding-at-his-mas-house)
> 
> \---
> 
> warning: long, rambly, thoroughly, THOROUGHLY self-indulgent Scout/Pauling fluff ahead, because [valoscope](http://tmblr.co/mLzmcOXZWXzdWPqM5eFFwfg) posted [this gifset](http://valoscope.tumblr.com/post/117481780776) (with THOSE TAGS) and THEN sent  _this prompt_ , and I went over 4.5k words of overboard.

The Administrator had sent the order for Miss Pauling to spend a month as a student intern, to a professor at MIT who had reputedly acquired and was experimenting on a sample of Australium. Whether or not she was going to be required to murder the man was still up for debate, as he seemed to be making negligible progress. Privately she’d started to hope not. He was an affable, excitable man, portly and bluff, and so far he seemed convinced that the tiny sliver of golden metal he’d acquired was going to revolutionize the light bulb industry, and win him a research grant. Probably nothing like a threat, but it was better safe than sorry.

So she was in Boston. And she’d needed somewhere to stay, and _technically_ her work was supposed to be highly classified. But it wasn’t like she’d told Scout what she was doing, and it wasn’t even remotely like he cared, when offered the prospect of Miss Pauling in his hometown. When she’d asked him offhandedly whether or not he knew of any decent places to stay near Cambridge, he’d lit up with a grin, scribbled down an address, and promised it would be  _perfect_ for her.

She should have expected it was  _his_ address.

It was an old house, tall and narrow and crammed between others that looked exactly like it. And technically it was his mother’s address, and technically she took in boarders, mostly students over the course of the school year. But it was summertime, and it was Sunday, and the house was empty and quiet. Miss Pauling had been given a room on the second storey, with a vase of tulips on the windowsill and a small bathroom of her own. Scout’s mother was the consummate hostess. All her boys had moved out, and left her with rooms to spare, though their homes and families not more than an hour away. Scout was an exception to the rule, but still went home every chance he got, and still had the room he’d had before leaving home.

Miss Pauling had turned up on the doorstep of the house, with its cheerful front garden and its sign in the window, “Rooms to Let”. She’d been armed with a forty-five caliber pistol, her little suitcase and a backache from a long bus ride, and Scout had answered the door.

And he’d been easily,  _effortlessly_ charming. He hadn’t even tried, as far as she could tell, hadn’t overdone it the way he always did, just took her bag upstairs and settled her in the kitchen with a glass of lemonade, and said his ma had gone ‘round the corner to pick up groceries for dinner, but she’d be back soon to make proper introductions. Then he’d grabbed a duffel bag from the front hall, and bolted out the door with nothing more than a brisk wave and a “See ya later, Miss Pauling!” and she’d been left feeling as though something was missing. Not even at least a comment on how nice she looked, in spite of the fact that she’d spent eighteen hours on a bus and really didn’t look nice at all.

And since then she’d seen surprisingly little of him. Miss Pauling had expected he would be tailing after her everywhere she went, and that she’d need to keep him firmly at arm’s length so she could actually manage to work. But nothing of the kind had actually been the case, and she’d found herself secretly bewildered. Because something seemed to happen to Scout in his natural environment, and it made him almost  _unbearable_ , in ways Miss Pauling hadn’t even been aware of. 

In the Badlands Scout was all talk, all boasting and braggadocio, and endless, constant flirting. With his perpetual restless energy, over-caffeinated and hyperactive, he’d always seemed childish and not worth her time. She’d gotten good at tuning him out, not out of any particular distaste, but out of necessity. Back home he was another animal entirely. Without anything to prove, in a place he knew backwards and forwards, Scout was almost a completely different person. In Boston he was idle and easy, securely comfortable and at home. And for the first time since she’d met him, actually,  _almost_ kind of tempting.

So that was new.

Thankfully, their first encounter on the front steps was almost all she’d seen of him for the rest of that first week. Apparently when Scout was home his schedule tended to invert itself, and he became something of a nightowl. Miss Pauling found herself missing him, and it was  _weird_. It was weird not to have him constantly underfoot, constantly tripping over himself in an effort to get her attention. It was weird not to be flirted with all the time. It was almost a little lonely, made her feel a little neglected. Made her wonder if she only got his attention in the Badlands because there just weren’t any other girls for him to go after. She told herself Scout was just busy.

At least there was his mother.

Miss Pauling had somewhat limited experience with mother figures. Her own mother had died when she was still too young to really remember her, and the Administrator was far from the maternal type. Scout’s mother was named Katherine, but insisted on being called Kitty. And when Miss Pauling got back after a long day of wandering around an enormous college campus, Kitty invariably had a cup of tea waiting and wanted to hear about her day, while she puttered around the kitchen, making dinner. Practically nobody ever wanted to hear about Miss Pauling’s day. And certainly nobody ever made her dinner, never mind someone who was a fabulous cook. It just about made her want to cry.

The city itself was lush with summer greenery, hot and dense and  _alive_ , with a refreshing ocean breeze to take the edge off, after the barren, blasted heat of the Badlands. And she had a fake job, but it was easy and low-pressure. Her boss was amiable and didn’t need her to murder anybody, as much as he needed her to keep his files in order. There weren’t even that many files. There wasn’t a dress code. She’d indulged in summery slacks and a blouse and even let her hair down a few times. And then she got a  _weekend_. 

It was practically a vacation. Miss Pauling hadn’t had a vacation since grade school.  A whole weekend, with no work to speak of? Miss Pauling had no idea what to do with herself. 

When she’d mentioned this to Kitty, on her first Saturday off, Miss Pauling had been bundled into a cab and taken shopping. Miss Pauling couldn’t remember if she’d ever  _been_ taken shopping, let alone with someone who fussed over her and trawled through stylish downtown boutiques, helping her pick out pretty summer shoes and dresses, then linking arms with her and taking her out for lunch. Kitty, apparently, had always wanted a daughter. It had been just about the best Saturday ever.  

And  _then_ she’d gotten to sleep in. She’d woken to an empty house, and a note in the kitchen informing her that Kitty had gone to church and would be back around noon. Miss Pauling had decided she was going to take her new friend/mentor out for brunch.

That had been the plan, anyway.

She’d put on her prettiest new dress and a pair of strappy kitten heels, and she’d gone to wait in the parlor and read one of the romance novels that Kitty had left in a pile on the middle of her bed, without any additional comment. It was tawdry. It was thrilling. It made a nice change from gun catalogues.

It maybe wasn’t the best choice of reading material to be caught with. When Miss Pauling heard the sound of the stairs above her creaking, and what was becoming a familiar tramp down the stairs, she’d blushed bright pink, snapped the book closed, and stuffed it down into the cushions of the parlor’s plush loveseat. She’d gotten up, smoothed a hand over her dress and patted her hair, and rearranged the cushions primly.

Then she’d crept out into the front hallway, uncharacteristically shy, and just in time to catch Scout on his way down from the second floor. She heard him stifle a yawn. Miss Pauling found herself holding her breath, watching a pair of bare feet, a beaten-up pair of jeans, descending between the rails of the banister. Miss Pauling realized, rather abruptly, that she hadn’t ever seen Scout in jeans. Let alone in a pair with one of the knees blown out, frayed white threads framing just a glimpse of one of his calves. God, he had gorgeous calves, all taut muscle and a light tan, golden against pale blue denim.

These jeans, apparently, were just a little too large. At least, if the way they hung loose, low over his hipbones was any indication. The way the waistband of his boxers was visible, cutting off a light, tawny brown line of hair, trailing down from his bellybutton. Oh god, that was definitely new. She wouldn’t have gotten a look at his torso, lithely, leanly muscular, if he hadn’t been pulling a white tanktop on, only halfway dressed before he reached the first floor. Probably he’d slept in, too. It was the first day since she’d arrived that she hadn’t been gone by the time he got up, or in bed by the time he got home.

Probably if it hadn’t been for the romance novel, her brain wouldn’t have started wondering what he’d worn to bed. Presumably not the jeans. Probably not the tanktop. Hopefully not the boxers. Her cheeks flushed warm, she darted back into the front parlor and was uncharacteristically flustered. Miss Pauling had a  _problem_. 

It was a problem she’d never had in the Badlands. In the Badlands she could armor herself in professional distance, and in the acute awareness of just how many cameras there were pointed at every corner of every base, precluding any misbehaviour in the workplace. Not that she had any  _time_ for misbehaviour. In the Badlands she was overworked, stressed, and usually worn out and somewhat frazzled. In the Badlands she wore a plain a-line skirt and a severe, button up blouse every day. Not a flowy, flirty summer dress in a delicate floral print, not pretty, strappy heels and light, ethereal perfume. Miss Pauling almost never felt  _pretty_.

Only twenty pages worth of her first ever romance novel had her wanting a summer fling. As far as Scout was concerned, she was probably ninety percent of the way there. He’d had at least a crush on her for ages. Maybe it was time to tip that scale and see what happened. It wasn’t like she was going to get another opportunity. Her hand smoothed over her hair again, then nervously down the front of her dress.

She ducked back into the hallway, and pretended like she was surprised to meet Scout coming out of the kitchen, still a little bleary-eyed and with a cup of coffee in hand. “Oh! Hey.”

“Hey, Miss Pauling! Mornin’. Nice dress.” It was an old house and the hallways were narrow, so bumping into him was almost literal. He leaned against the wall, casual. She mirrored him, pressing her back against the rise of the staircase, suppressing a shiver at the coolness of the old plaster through the thin fabric of her dress. 

Why hadn’t she ever noticed how appealingly tall he was? Why hadn’t she ever paid particular attention to how nice his arms were, his hands, long fingers cradling a plain white mug, small in his bare palms. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen his hands unwrapped, and the way tan lines ended at his wrists, highlighted his wrist bones. She was staring. She stopped, felt herself blush, twisted the hem of her skirt slightly in her hands. “Thanks. Thank you. I, um, your mom took me shopping.”

Scout grinned, downed the contents of his coffee cup and set it aside on the hall table. “Yeah, she sure likes you a helluva lot. Heh. She always said she wanted girls.”

Miss Pauling had already formed this impression, but it was still flattering to be told. She took an improbably intense interest in the staircase’ bannister, reaching up and running her hand down one of the balusters. “I like her too. Your mom is…well. She’s really nice. But you know that. I never knew my mother.”

His expression softened, his voice along with it, like it might have been the wrong thing to say, might have made her sad, (though he hadn’t), “Aww, I didn’t know  _that,_ though, ‘bout your mom. M’sorry. Well, I’m real glad you came t’stay, then, she mothers the hell outta anybody’ll let her. Woulda figured she’d had her fill of it, me ‘n my brothers an’ all, but nah. So don’t tell my ma you ain’t got a mom of your own, ‘cuz she’ll just adopt you. Ain’t even kidding.”

“I’ll remember that.”   _She’d better not, that would make this next part really awkward._ “So, I haven’t seen that much of you, um, lately. Just this past week, I mean. I thought you’d be following me around everywhere.”

This made him laugh and raise an eyebrow at her. “Aww, Miss Pauling! Ain’t personal, was only I figured you were workin’ all the time, I’d better stay outta the way. Colleges an’ shit, that really ain’t my scene, y’know? Besides, s’just there’s a ton of stuff I always gotta do when I get back home. I got all my brothers to visit, I got like a dozen nieces’n nephews an’ I gotta take ‘em all to ball games, y’know, family stuff. An’ that ain’t even counting my cousins. I got about a billion cousins. Hell, one of ‘em’s bought a sports bar, the dumbass, said I’d tend bar a few nights as a favour. It’s just busy. Nothin’ t’do in the Badlands, but there’s a ton of stuff in Boston, an’ I only got so much time to try’n do all of it. Ain’t been avoidin’ you or nothin’, not on purpose. What, didja miss me?” he questioned, teasing.

_Here goes_. “Yes. You know, actually, I kind of did.”

Scout blinked. Usually this was the sort of remark that Miss Pauling brushed off, dismissed with cool firmness, because it wasn’t professional. “…What, really?”

“Well, yeah. Yes. I mean…I don’t know, you’re the only person I really know here. It’s a  _big_  city and I’m just on my own. And, I mean, it’s fine, you know, because I’m working, but it’s an easy job and I’m supposed to be undercover. The professor I’m investigating asked me what I was going to do on the weekend, and I didn’t know what to tell him. Your mom is nice, but I was kind of hoping  _you_ might show me around. Like, or that we could go out or something. I guess.”

This was met with a blank stare, and Miss Pauling found herself wishing desperately that he didn’t only like her in the Badlands, and only because there just  _wasn’t_  anyone else. But, finally, disbelieving, “ _Hell_ , Miss Pauling. Shit. You askin’ me out? Like, f'real? Even with how you’re here workin’ an’ all that?”

She shrugged, shy again. “I guess so. I mean, if you wanted. It’s fine if you don’t, I just thought…well, in the Badlands…it’s just different. When I’m working properly, I’m just so stressed out and busy and I never pay you any attention, because I just  _can’t_. But, w-well. It seems different here. I feel different.” Miss Pauling hesitated and glanced up, trying to read his expression when she continued, “ _You_ seem different. Less…I don’t know–just a little less–”

“Little less friggin’ wired all the damn time?” Scout laughed and rubbed a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Heh, yeah, that’d make sense. Nah, you’re just bein’ real nice an’ not sayin’ that  _usually_  I am a big damn pain in the ass. I don’t mind, ain’t like I can help it. You wanna talk about stress, Miss Pauling, I get shot an’ stabbed an’ blown up three or four times a day. An’ New Mexico’s just a whole ton of nothin’ at all, ‘specially after growin’ up in a place like Boston, an I get bored outta my damn mind. ‘Sides that, I run off enough caffeine the doc says he ain’t sure why my heart ain’t just plain exploded. Probably not like y'would’ve _wanted_ t’hang around me the first week I’m off work, withdrawal’s a bitch an’ usually I’m a bit of a bastard.”

Oh. Well,  _that_  explained a lot. Miss Pauling smiled, and hoped it was coyly. “Just a cup of coffee in the morning?”

“Ain’t even, all my ma drinks is godawful decaf. Probably for the best, ‘cuz a’how that’s  _another_  thing, too. Can’t barely sleep at all unless I’m home. Too damn quiet in the Badlands, just lie awake all night with nothin’ but coyotes t'listen to. I only came down t’see if my ma’d got back from church yet; ain’t seen much of  _her_ either. Was gonna just go back to bed, since she ain’t home yet. Might be she rounded up a bridge game, she does that on Sundays, sometimes.” Scout paused and his gaze drifted away from her face, looking over her dress again. “You, uh, you goin’ out? With my ma?”

Miss Pauling was not a flirt by nature, but the pretty dress helped, and the way her low heels made her feel a little taller, a little more confident. She shrugged, attempted to look demure. “Only if you’re not available.”

 It made sense, when she thought about it, that this didn’t stop him cold, didn’t leave him gaping at her in vague disbelief at the fact that she’d actually ask him out, after years of brusque, businesslike rejection. There was only a beat of stunned silence before Scout grinned at her. “I ain’t ever been more available in my entire  _life_.”

He was just about always smiling, when he saw her, but somehow that was different, too. Made her stomach do a funny little flutter when he smiled, in a way it never had before. Better, maybe, because she got to smile back, still shy, but loving the way his blue eyes lit up. All the things that were different made  _sense_ , how Scout was calmer, steadier, more at ease than she’d ever seen him before. Of  _course_  he had a stressful job, of course he was just as different as she was, away from it. It was more than just the romance novel she’d stuffed in between the couch cushions that had her looking at him in an entirely new light.

There seemed to be something a little different about the way he looked at her, too, evaluating, a little skeptical. “Crap, Miss Pauling. An’ you ain’t just jerkin’ my chain here? Why ain’t you said nothin’ like this when you first got here? Shoot. Could’ve gone out with you a  _week_  ago.” 

Miss Pauling wasn’t certain she would have said yes, a week ago. Turning Scout down flat was a deeply ingrained habit. “Well, we should make up for lost time.”

There was a bit of a wry twist to his smile now, though his blue eyes were still bright. “Man. If all it took was gettin’ the caffeine outta my system, an’ calmin’ the hell down for five minutes, might be we could be makin’ up for more'n just a week.”

“It’s not that. Not  _just_ that,” she corrected, because she would be lying if she told him it didn’t help that he’d stood still the entire time they’d been talking. “It’s everything else, too, the Badlands, my work, _your_  work, the rest of the team, the Administrator–” Miss Pauling trailed off, shrugged. She hadn’t meant for things to turn melancholy. “Maybe we could make up for more than just a week. I mean, I’m only supposed to be here for another few weeks. We could…maybe we could condense things, a bit.”

“You think?” Speculatively, looking her up and down. “What, y’mean pretend like we already got the first couple dates outta the way?”

“Mmm, I don’t know, we’ve known each other for  _years_ now. The guy I’m tailing–the MIT guy? He asked if I had a boyfriend picking me up after work or anything. I’m supposed to be undercover. That would be pretty convincing. Temporarily, you know.”

“ _Really_.” Scout had folded his arms across his chest and bent a knee, leaning back against the wall, still grinning. “So…what, just a picks-you-up-from-work type temporary boyfriend?”

“That sounds like a good start.” Miss Pauling smiled at the thought, shifting against the wall and shivering a little as her bare skin touched a fresh patch of the wall. “Maybe a takes-me-out-for-brunch type temporary boyfriend.”

It was a narrow hallway and he straightened up, leaning forward to brush a strand of her hair back, from where it had fallen loose from the low chignon she wore, curled across her cheek. “Think I’m maybe more the kinda boyfriend’d be better for picnics, maybe. Guy like me gets a temporary girlfriend like  _you_ , hell, I wanna show off every chance I get. Couple’a nice parks down by the harbour, grab lunch at this little hole in the wall deli I know. Maybe ice cream after. Seein’ as how it’s nice day, an’ all.”

“It’s a beautiful day,” Miss Pauling agreed, emboldened now, a little playful as she lifted her hand to catch Scout’s fingers, her palm brushing over the ridge of his knuckles, taking his hand properly. “Really a shame to stay inside.”

“Be a waste of that pretty dress. Hey, so an’ I guess you’re the kinda girlfriend’s already met my ma? Most girls I run around with ain’t got that far. Man, I guess we’re gettin’ sorta serious.” 

Miss Pauling shrugged her shoulders, extremely conscious of the way they moved beneath the fabric of her dress. She was growing more confident by the moment, firmly leaving behind any fear she’d ever had that Scout only liked her in the Badlands, and it felt _amazing_. He’d been flirting with her for years, and she’d never flirted back. “I guess we sort of are.”

Scout fixed her with an appraising stare, hesitating as her fingers threaded through his, squeezed. He let go and leaned back against the wall again. “Uh. Just so we’re clear, an’ since you say you ain’t messin’ with me–uh.  _How_  serious?”

It was an old house. The stairwell behind her was steep, the plaster wall still cool. It was a narrow hallway, opening back into the kitchen. The light was dim, shaded green and golden from the back garden, broken into shadowed fragments by the old glass of the kitchen window overlooking it. It was maybe ten in the morning, a warm, beautiful July day, but didn’t feel it, instead like some moment caught out of time, the leading edge of a decision.

If the hallway hadn’t been quite so narrow, Miss Pauling wouldn’t have been able to stretch a leg across it, resting the pointed tip of her strappy new shoe on the edge of the table where Scout had deposited his coffee cup. She’d always had nice legs, she thought, though she was only five feet and a charitable three inches tall. Still, her calves were toned and summery smooth, her knees were dimpled, and her skirt had fallen away showing the curve of her thigh. She retained just enough balance to nudge him in the hip with her toe. “Too serious?” she asked softly.

Plainly more serious than Scout had expected, with his widened eyes and a delay in his usual lightning reaction time. His body had always been quicker than his brain, and his fingers went to her ankle, traced a path upwards, drawing a line of goosebumps lightly across her skin. His hand had curved up over her kneecap before he seemed to catch up with what exactly the rest of him was doing. Stunned, blank silence gave way to a shy, almost nervous grin. Boyishly appealing. “Hey,” he found his voice again, though this was hushed and diminished, matching hers, “I’m game if you are.”

Miss Pauling tilted her chin up, moistened her lips, bold and inviting. “Kiss me and let’s find out.”

If he’d been waiting for an invitation, apparently that was it. He stepped closer and his hand slid the rest of the way up her thigh, callouses on his palms catching on the silky fabric of her dress as he gained purchase on her hip. Her knee bent reflexively as he pulled her against him, all warmth and strength and  _confidence_ , like she’d never seen. She felt herself stretch upward, onto the toes of the foot still resting on the ground, meeting him halfway. His other hand came gently to the side of her face, caressing her cheek and then, far more serious than either of them had expected, kissing her.

It would be a lie, even to herself, to pretend she hadn’t at least  _imagined_ kissing him. As a mental exercise, in the empty, barren loneliness of the Badlands. That reading in the parlor, words like  _deep_ and  _torrid_  and _wet_  and  _fiery_ , Scout hadn’t existed conveniently in the back of her imagination. Still. It wasn’t supposed to have been sweet and tender and improbably  _perfect_ , wasn’t supposed to have left her breathless and holding him, her hands clasped behind his neck, thrilled by warmth and the slight aftertaste of black coffee. Looking up for a fraction of a moment, and unable to help kissing him again, as though to be quite sure it hadn’t been a mistake.

Her fingers had tightened in the fabric of his shirt and a new ache of urgent  _need_ coiled itself inside her like a spring, when Scout’s hand closed over hers again, and gently disengaged, letting the weight of her against him settle back to the floor.

Miss Pauling was vulnerable for only a moment, afraid she’d come on entirely too strong, before he kissed her forehead, grinned at her. “ _Maybe_ too serious for my ma’s front hallway,” he discouraged, though kindly. “An’ a Sunday. An’ with me ain’t ever even bought you dinner or nothin’ yet, hell, an’ you only been my girlfriend for what, five minutes?”

She blushed, and continued to hold his hand, enjoying it immensely. “Well, it felt like longer,” she offered, by way of explanation.

“Yeah. Holy god, it sure does.  _Hell_ , Miss Pauling.” A little shy again, looking away. “God, not for nothin’, ain’t like I ain’t played it out in my head ‘bout a million times, but holy  _Christ_. Wow, y’know?”

“Wow,” she echoed, affirming. This made her giggle. And reaching up impulsively, rested her palm on his cheek, brushed her thumb over his lips, already reminiscing. “It was good. Nice. We’re off to a good start. We should definitely do it again.”

“ _Down_ , girl.” Scout laughed and brushed a strand of hair off her cheek again. “You lemme get dressed an’ buy you breakfast first. Okay?”

“Okay,” Miss Pauling agreed serenely, demure once again.

And glad, even if it was only temporary, that his mother already liked her.


	2. italian soda

It had been a brilliant idea, cutting to the chase. Culling out the awkwardness of pretending they had to get to know each other all over again and trusting to instinct and chemistry and what they had both gleaned already, in nearly half a decade of working together.

Thus far it was a better strategy than it had any right to be. Their first date, their first  _real_  date, acting like every little touch and gesture wasn’t fresh and new and exciting. Miss Pauling pretended not to be absolutely giddy when Scout took her elbow and guided her to the inside of the sidewalk, on the walk to the park for a picnic. Similarly, she could almost feel the energy it took for him to remain nonchalant, when her hand slipped across the small of his back and into the rear pocket of his jeans. She couldn’t ignore the shiver of excitement through him, when she squeezed just slightly.

And a picnic of sandwiches and salads, cookies and Italian sodas from the deli around the corner from Scout’s house, where he had apparently been a regular since childhood. Casual, affectionate small talk, about the neighborhood, about Boston. An old woolen blanket spread soft on a thick, springy patch of grass beneath a tree, just cool enough in the shade that his hands were still enticingly warm when he touched her, which was often. Delicious food, better than she’d had in years, crusty bread and tangy macaroni salad, lacy almond cookies with a crisp coating of chocolate. Scout had reached over and fed her one, she’d caught the tip of his finger gently with her lips. Feeling forward again, leaning over to kiss him, with chocolate still in her mouth, complementing the way he tasted of strawberry soda when her tongue teased past his teeth.

They were both trying to outdo each other, in the degree to which they under-reacted to each kiss or caress. Naturally it was Scout who broke first.

“ _God_. An’ I was gonna go back to bed,” he marveled, after Miss Pauling had shifted and nudged him into leaning back with his head in her lap. He grinned irrepressibly when she brushed her fingers through his hair, looking up . “Kinda wonder if maybe I did.”

Before they’d left the house he had retreated back upstairs, and come back down pulling an old gray t-shirt over the wife-beater he’d slept in. The navy blue logo was too worn and faded to make out, but when she’d asked, Scout had informed her that it was an old varsity track shirt. Then he had rambled proudly about his high school track team, and how if he hadn’t been quite so dumb (”Oh, stop that, you’re really not”) or anyway, quite so poor, he probably could have gotten into college on a scholarship. It was a nice shirt, anyway, nostalgic, one of the only pieces of clothing he owned that hadn’t been a hand-me-down. It was too small for him, but she wasn’t complaining. Wear and washing had worn the fabric smooth and thin, and Miss Pauling still marveled at the heat of him beneath her fingers. She debated briefly about where to pinch him, before deciding that it was probably safest just to tweak his ear, though her other hand lingered a little longer than necessary on his chest. And, lightly, teasing him, “Do you usually dream about me?”

“I, uh–no comment.” The way he swallowed, blood rising in his cheeks, was answer enough.

“So yes, then.”

“I wanna lawyer before I go answerin’ any tricky questions. Hell,  _you_ taught me that.” Scout squinted up at her, suspicious. “ _If_  I have dreams ‘bout you, they ain’t ever gone anywhere near this well.”

“No?”  _When you’re in mine it usually goes just **fine**._  Miss Pauling smiled and reached for the bottle of cream soda she’d been nursing, took a slow sip, though they had been lazily picnicking for over an hour and it was long past warm, beginning to taste cloying. “Wake up before anything interesting happens?”

“Nah. Usually it ain’t even anything. It’s just you’re there an’ most times I don’t even get t'say anything before it goes wrong. I get mauled by a bear or arrested an’ pitched in jail or Soldier or Heavy or somebody shows up an’ it all gets wrecked.” He shifted, shrugged. “Like I said, I ain’t get what you’d call decent sleep in the Badlands.”

Well  _that_  broke her heart, a little. That Scout never managed to get anywhere with her, even dreaming. She ran her hand gently through his hair, enjoyed the way he couldn’t seem to help shivering. Her fingertips traced light pressure against his scalp, and she reached for the hand he had rested on his chest, squeezing his fingers. “Score one for reality, then.”

Scout didn’t seem to know what to say, but again with the way he smiled up at her. He reached up, his knuckles brushing her cheek before settling back down on top of her fingers. She felt a slow stirring of sweetness inside herself, in the place that was barren and stifled in the badlands, but was alive and greening with life now. Affection. Miss Pauling just about  _starved_  for it during the bulk of her working year, giving as much as receiving. Her relationships didn’t tend to be affectionate. Cordial and friendly at the absolute extreme, but brusque and professional otherwise. She absolutely had a great deal of fondness for the mercs, but there was no real way to express it.

The mercs slapped each other on the back or punched shoulders or elbowed ribs, extending the physicality of the battlefield into gruff camaraderie. Miss Pauling waved, occasionally, smiled or shook hands. But there was a tacit understanding that no one was really supposed to touch Miss Pauling. So no hands on her shoulders, no friendly hugs. Not much of anything in her private life, either. Her apartment prohibited pets, but there were stray cats around, and she left food out for them on the sly. They were mostly wary and skittish, but she was winning a few of them over with small cans of salmon and a little planter full of catnip. Cats could be nice. But she liked to touch people, liked the way it cut through her and got at the place where she was lonely inside, made her feel the warmth of connection.

There was a sudden jolt of movement beneath her hand, and a slight gasp, one of those twitches that woke people right on the edge of sleep. Blue eyes again, slightly accusing. “–mmhm. Miss Pauling. Quit that, ’m gonna fall asleep,” Scout objected, even as he turned his head, so her fingers pressed deeper through his hair, dusty brown and softer than she’d expected.

She smiled and nudged her purse. “You should relax. You were going to back to bed, it’s fine. I brought a book.” It was the very same book she’d stuffed under couch cushions rather than be caught with. She’d covertly retrieved it while he’d been upstairs changing, and she still didn’t intend to be  _caught_  reading it. But with visual inspiration so close to hand, dozing with his head on her things and his too-tight gray t-shirt, his long legs with one knee bent and a bare foot resting on the blanket—- _well_.

“S'date, though,” he objected, though drowsily, and Miss Pauling teased her fingers deeper through his short hair, adding the pressure of her palm. “Can’t sleep through our first damn date.”

“We skipped that. I’ve been on plenty of dates with my temporary boyfriend. Try and dream something that ends a bit better than usual.”

Scout had already dropped back off, ceding ground to a lack of caffeine and the unsolicited scalp massage. Miss Pauling studied his face for a few long moments. She knew, speaking for herself, that if she didn’t go out of her way to smile, she tended to look frosty and unapproachable. Scout had the opposite problem, smiling at  _everything_  in a way that made him seem childish and like he took nothing seriously. Admittedly, usually this was the case. But asleep, neutral. No dopey grin, no bucktoothed smirk. Miss Pauling gently traced the line of his jaw, ran her fingertip down the bridge of his nose, then resumed brushing her fingers through his hair. She liked Scout’s face. Smiling, too, she’d always appreciated that. It was a bright spot in her day that he always smiled when he saw her. But he was so rarely serious and she was surprised by how well it suited him. Grew him up.

Miss Pauling read for an idyllic, indulgent half-hour, enjoying the sounds of birdsong and laughter over the distant roar of the city, and a slim, dog-eared book with a blush pink cover and an illustration that only distantly reflected the contents of the book so far. It was a world within the world she’d already escaped into, the life she pretended she could have had outside the Badlands. She had determinedly put Kitty’s motives out of her mind, when she’d discovered the pile of romance novels on her bed. But, they was no denying they were helpful.

Shifted, gingerly let Scout’s head rest on the picnic blanket. Lowered herself down to lie on her side next to him as he stirred, and teased at his bare ankle with her toes. When he shifted and blinked sleepily, she pushed herself up on her knees and slipped her hand beneath the hem of his t-shirt. Ran her thumb along the ridge of his hip bone, then her palm sliding up his side as she leaned forward. Scooting closer, dipping her face downward, she pressed her lips lightly into the hollow of his throat, already moving on to kiss his jaw when his hand twitched beside her, went reflexively to the small of her back. By the time he’d turned his face towards hers, he’d wrapped an arm around her and was halfway sitting up when her teeth tugged gently at his lower lip.

She’d shifted her weight again, stretched her leg over his hips to sit in his lap, felt a soft moan catch in the back of her throat, felt his hand tightening against her back, and then the fingers of his free hand catching the back of her neck. She wondered if his hands would always remind her just how cool she was, if he could help the way he drew her in, if he wore that dumb grin of his while he kissed her. The thought made her smile, impulsively drawing back and opening her eyes, with a light peck on the tip of his nose just before she drew back.

Scout blinked and–hadn’t been smiling, but broke into a crooked sort of half-smile when he saw her own helpless grin. “…uh. Yeah, hi. Miss Pauling. Hiya. Uh, you get bored?”

“I got lonely.”

“Aw.” And kissed her again, a little more tentatively than when  _she_ started it, like he still wasn’t sure where the lines were, even with a hundred and twenty pounds of her sat in his lap, her fingers teasing at his skin beneath his shirt and her other hand buried in his hair. Even with the way a pleasurable little shudder of her own thrilled through her, and her knees tightened on either side of his hips.

So she came on a little strong. He’d kissed plenty of girls, and more than that, obviously. Liked girls. Loved 'em. Had always had it easy, with the kind of girls who went for the kind of guy he was. Girls without the sort of standards he’d always attributed to Miss Pauling. It wasn’t the newness of it, exactly, but he was pretty sure there’d always been something  _different_  about her. Something about the softness of her lips and her tongue, the way she moved her hands, the throaty little moan when she’d swung a leg over his hips. He knew what it all  _meant_ , but not where Miss Pauling was concerned. The context had changed. He could feel the skin of her bare legs touching his stomach where she’d tugged his t-shirt up, her weight resting on his thighs. Oh god. And her hands were cool, her fingernails dragging lightly against his skin, the leading edge of pain, the kind that set off tremors all through his nervous system, set him shivering for the briefest moment.

Scout was trying to fish what he knew about public decency laws out of a rising tide of endorphins, and to recall whether or not there were likely to be any children present, when Miss Pauling broke away again, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. “I think it’s going pretty well,” she commented casually, as she settled back to sit on the blanket again, let him lean back on his hands and rub at his eyes, stifle a yawn.

Scout nodded, tried to come up with something to say that wasn’t about the fact that he still didn’t quite believe what was happening. Miss Pauling had apparently decided to set the pace, and apparently it was going to be a brisk one, even by his standards. “Quicker'n I ever figured it would,” he admitted.

Miss Pauling adjusted the straps of her dress and smoothed the skirt modestly over her knees. Still smiling, though with the way she’d looked away and was humming softly to herself, he got the idea it was mostly to herself. He wondered if she knew just what she looked like, was well aware he was about to be caught staring at her. She loosened her hair from the untidy knot at the nape of her neck, ran her fingers through it and then twisted it expertly back into place. Straightened her glasses. Scout wondered if this was the sort of thing anyone else ever saw her do, how she could make the most mundane things seem so private and intimate, on a warm summer Sunday, in the middle of a crowded park in South Boston.

“I hope I’m not rushing you,” she said, looking up to catch him staring. Miss Pauling usually had a slightly harried, vague sort of expression in the Badlands, like she didn’t quite have time to listen to anything that was being told to her by anyone who didn’t have an appointment. Scout was still unaccustomed to having her full attention–the attention that was usually taken up by whatever it was she did for Mann Co–she was startlingly direct, her gaze sharp-eyed and intent. She seemed to catch herself, and smiled again, a shy, slightly wistful expression as she reached over to put her hand on his knee. “It’s only–well. I’m short on time. I’m still technically on the job, even if the workload is light. I want to make the most of it.”

It took longer to answer than he meant it to. “Oh! Uh, nah, s'fine. I mean, what, rush  _me_? Heh. That ain’t a thing that happens. Just, uh, guess you meant it, 'bout bein’ serious.” Scout still wasn’t totally certain what exactly she’d  _meant_  by “serious”. His brain seemed blip out of order, very inconveniently, every time she went about doing the things she seemed to think were serious. “I think we’re…I mean, what you said. I think it’s goin’ pretty well. Right?” He reached for her hand on his knee, squeezed it, grinned when she squeezed back, visibly relieved.

As they packed up the blanket and bags and the remnants of the picnic, there was more light chatter, small talk. Miss Pauling laughed and smiled and was lovely, and brightly she asked, “I don’t suppose you’d like to drop me off at work tomororow? Like a good boyfriend?”

“Sure. 'Course, Miss Pauling.” When he reached out for her hand and threaded their fingers together, Scout still wondered the extent of what she’d meant by  _serious_ , but like most things in his life thus far, had cautiously decided he was probably best served just to make it up as he went along. Miss Pauling, equally, wondered just what she’d meant by _temporary_. Because it was a hopeless exercise, a flight of fancy that she  _needed_  to keep temporary. But when he lifted his arm to rest around her shoulders, bent to softly kiss her forehead, she resolved not to think about it any further. The sun would set on the weekend, and her morning began at seven AM. Plenty of time to be serious until then.


	3. penthouse

The note she’d left on the kitchen table would inform her youngest son that she’d gone out of town for a few days with her bridge club for a tournament, and instruct him to have an eye on the house and to look after their guest.

Kitty did not have a bridge club. She had never cared for bridge, or if she had, she’d long since lost her taste for the game. Playing cards had been cheap, easy entertainment when she’d had a tight budget, and between the eight of them, her boys probably knew every card game ever invented. There wasn’t a card game she didn’t know forwards and backwards, but she’d played eight childhoods’ worth of cards, and it was enough for a lifetime. A woman who didn’t care for cards had no need of a bridge club. So Kitty didn’t have one.

 

She  _did_  have the keys to a penthouse in downtown Boston. And there’d been red rose petals in the collection basket at church, the scent of incense had been overwhelmed just briefly by a smoky, familiar cologne, and she had declined brunch with the Catholic Women’s League in favour of decadent food, expensive wine, and  _filthy_ extramarital sex with a French assassin. Her note didn’t mention that, though she’d kissed the corner of it and left a red lipstick smudge. Red was a sinful colour, and Kitty only ever wore red lipstick on her way to a penthouse apartment in downtown Boston.

* * *

_Rory,_

_Gone up to Manchester with the girls for a bridge tournament, home in a few days. Look after the house and our guest. She is a NICE GIRL. DON’T GET FRESH. Mrs. Cassidy is picking up a casserole for the church potluck on Wednesday, it’s the blue tupperware in the freezer. Be good, baby. Love you._

_Ma_

* * *

When he was old enough for a room of his own, Scout had been shuffled out of sharing a room with whatever long-suffering brother had had enough of him, and been stuck in the attic. Everyone in the family always called his room “the penthouse”. This had mostly been to help talk him into actually sleeping in it, because it was dark and full of dust and spiders and a single, cobwebby lightbulb was all it offered for illumination.

Though he’d complained initially of the dust and the spiders and the dark, it turned out that once it was cleaned out and lightly furnished, there were benefits to the room that none of his brothers had anticipated. The attic had an old fire escape down from the single window. There was a ten year gap between Scout and his oldest brother, and six boys between the pair of them. He’d been nine the first time one of his brothers had knocked on his bedroom door in the middle of the night, with a girl waiting on the fire escape and a hopeful, bargaining grin. Over the years he’d made the space his own, leveraging a tax for passage through his bedroom in the wee hours of the morning, whether there was a girlfriend on the fire escape, or a party down the block, or just somewhere better to be than at home.

Over the years the attic walls had been insulated and drywalled, his mother had hung wallpaper and he’d hung posters and pennants. The barter system that had served his brothers had paid out in assorted furniture and various bits and pieces of ephemera that had appealed to the baby of the family at various stages of his life. By the time he was old enough to sneak out or bring home girlfriends of his own, the attic had been finished to the point where he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. This was home.

Scout had only ever imagined Miss Pauling in the Badlands. With her neat pencil skirt and her dark hair. Her clipboard, her little scooter, her shovel. All her hard work, she’d always reminded him of his Ma, that way. The way she was always so abstracted, so plainly stressed. He’d always sort of wanted to just try and help her relax, a little.

Well, she was relaxing now, with her shoes discarded downstairs, her bare feet crossed at the ankles, just off the edge of the bed. Still in her almost-sheer summery dress, sitting on the bedspread in the diagonal patch of sunset cast through the attic window. She was paging through an old binder full of baseball cards. Her hair was still up, mostly, though a few locks had escaped across her pale shoulders, lightly kissed by the sun, rosy with the beginning of a sunburn. Did she get sunburns in the Badlands? He couldn’t imagine it. He’d never known how to imagine her outside of her job.

And had he ever imagined her in his bedroom? Maybe in one or two of his dreams she’d turned up in one of the dorm rooms or the barracks at whatever base the team was at, sure, but never  _here_. Never in the place he’d grown up, never  _Boston_. Scout had never been hopeful enough to think they’d ever get this far. Let alone in the space of a day. They’d followed their picnic with some sightseeing. Nowhere touristy, nowhere too crowded, nowhere they couldn’t get on foot. Mostly just his old haunts, his favourite places around the neighbourhood. When they’d gotten home, he’d been carrying her piggyback, with her shoes dangling by their straps from her fingers over his shoulder. He’d been a little sorry to let her down onto her aching, tired feet when they reached the front steps of the house.

But there’d been the note from his Ma. She’d be gone for a few days. And then Miss Pauling’s coy, soft-voiced request for a tour of the house. She hadn’t really seemed interested until he’d held out a hand to help her up the steep ladder to the attic landing and then through his bedroom door. Neither of them seemed to have anything to say, and Scout found himself hanging by the doorway, while she moved through the room like it was a museum exhibit. Maybe it sort of was. She peered at the books on the shelves, at the old ribbons and trophies on the bookshelf–from his old varsity track team, the t-shirt he still wore. A baseball, signed by some Red Sox player he couldn’t even remember the name of. Pictures, mostly of his brothers and their families, school photos of their kids.

It had been quiet for too long, and Scout wasn’t sure how he felt about Miss Pauling, quietly sifting through the artifacts that made up his whole life’s story. For lack of anything better to say, and feeling awkward even as he said it, he spoke up, “Uh. How’re your feet?”

She looked up at him, as though noticing for the first time that he was still just standing by the door. Her eyes were intent in contrast to her voice, which was still soft, inviting. “They’re fine. Come sit down.”

The springs of the bed creaked when Scout sat down beside her, and she closed the binder and laid it aside. It wasn’t like he could have said no. He wasn’t sure what part of him would even for a moment think that he’d want to. Except he couldn’t remember the last time he’d even  _had_ a girl up here. Or how it had gone, or who she’d been, or what they even would have done. Had the air felt so still, had the house seemed so silent? Had he ever gotten in this deep, this fast with anybody?

Never with anybody  _important_.

Miss Pauling wasn’t supposed to be the one who made all the first moves, her hand reaching across the rumpled bedspread to catch his wrist for a moment. Then her fingertips trailing lightly up his arm, then curling closed, her knuckles dragging back down. Smooth and gentle, just touching him, caressing. And again, again. Her hands were cool and gave him goosebumps. Her eyes followed her fingers as she slid closer, leaned against his arm and rested her head against his upper arm. Miss Pauling’s other hand moved up his back, across his shoulder blades, and she sighed a deep sigh of contentment.

“Thank you,” she murmured, and nestled closer as Scout wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulled her close against his chest. “For today–for everything. This.”

“Aw, nah, was nothin’ special, Miss Pauling. I’m glad you’re gettin’ a break from the Badlands an’ work an’ all. Always kinda seems like you need one.”

He felt her nod, rather than saw it, and her lips brushed his collarbone as she turned her face upward, wrapped her arms around his neck. “I do. I  _really_  do.”

And though he should have known to expect it, from the sound of her voice and the touch of her hands and the way she’d taken his hand and followed him into his bedroom–again with that leading edge, the way she kept pressing further forward than he expected her to. One of her feet pushed off the floor as she leaned against him, until he was reclining on one elbow and she was on her knees beside– _above_ –on top of him. The straps of her dress were loose over her shoulders, he could’ve seen straight down the front of it if she hadn’t been kissing him, _insistent_. Her mouth wetter, hungrier than it had been before now. Serious.  _Really_  serious.

God, and she knew  _exactly_  what she was doing, when her parted knees spread further and she lowered her weight over his hips, straddling him properly and sliding slowly back. Perfectly measured, exquisite pressure, made his breath catch and his hands tighten at her hips, even as the fabric of her skirt tugged out from beneath them. God she was _gorgeous_ , her dress sliding up over her torso, her head, bared smooth skin and soft satin, her breasts half covered in pale ivory lace, almost every part of him was suddenly  _aching_  and impatient for her. Except. Except–

“…w-wait.”

Miss Pauling–oh Christ he didn’t even know her  _name_ , oh fuck,  _stop_ –had a hand on the waistband of his jeans, fingers slipping the button through the buttonhole when she stopped. Froze, more like it, and Scout could feel the sudden tension in her, the way her face seemed caught between expressions–he couldn’t tell if she was anxious or impatient or irritated or something else entirely, but her voice, faltering, betrayed her, “What?”

He had to sit up, had to find somewhere safe to put his hand and gently push her away, had to take a long moment and a few deep breaths and clear his head and– “No–I mean, no, hang on. Look, m'sorry. Just…”

She interrupted hastily, “Oh! Um. I’m on the pill. And, I mean, I know your medical records are clear. It’s okay. Is that all? Or is there something…?” The uncertainty in her voice was awful, because Miss Pauling was  _never_  uncertain. In the Badlands– _fuck the Badlands, we ain’t in the Badlands_ –she was always self-posessed, assured. Her face fell and she was already pulling away before he even had a chance to answer. She ran her fingertips over his collarbone, as though trying to muster her confidence again, “I know what I’m doing,” softly, reassuring.

“Yeah, well, that makes one of us,” Scout managed, before he’d really thought it through, before he said it out loud and winced at the way it sounded. “I, uh. I mean–Miss Pauling…”

“What? What’s wrong?”

Nothing was wrong. But neither was this  _right_ , all sudden and out of nowhere, and with  _her_. “It ain’t…no, there’s not anything  _wrong_ , Miss Pauling. Just–I-I guess, I dunno…what’re we doin’? This–oh, fuck, I ain’t meant it’s something you did or–or anything like that–it’s just this’s been  _real_  goddamn fast, Miss Pauling, an’ I–” he trailed off, didn’t know what to tell her.

Miss Pauling had bitten her lip and the weight of her gaze was worse than before, like he’d fucked up, because probably he had,  _definitely_  he had and– “…I thought…I thought we were okay? I mean, I thought this was just how things were going, I didn’t think you’d  _mind_.” Slightly reproachful, now, maybe masking a quaver of hurt in her voice. “You didn’t  _seem_  to. You…with the hall and the picnic…and now with  _this_. Why wouldn’t you– _God_ , Scout. You could’ve  _said_.”

She was on the other edge of the bed now, she’d practically scrambled away, drawn her legs up, her arms across her chest. The sunset outside had shaded into dusk, and the darkness in the attic room’s deep corners and dormered windows fell further. Scout found his voice and carefully moved a little closer. “Hey,” he tried, softly. “Look, I ain’t sayin’ hit the brakes, just…maybe ease off the gas? Miss Pauling? This just…it ain’t been  _bad_ , it’s just how I ain’t sure where it’s all s'posed t'be goin’, an’ just it don’t seem  _like_  you. Y'know?”

This made her entire posture stiffen and those intent green eyes flashed in the dark. The softness of her voice hardened, the hurt sharpening into anger. “No. How would  _you_  know? We work together. That’s all. I just thought it might make things a little easier, if it was  _you_ , this time. Since you’re  _here_.” Miss Pauling stood up, snatched her dress from where it had fallen by the side of the bed. “I was only trying to save time.”

 _Me, this time. Aw, god._  “Was only I worried maybe something was wrong–”

A short burst of laughter and she was utterly unabashed, barefoot and in her underwear, rounding on him with her flowery dress bunched in one hand. Her glasses were still on, they glinted in the very last of the light through the window. “No, nothing’s  _wrong_. What, I can’t turn up in some big city looking for a stupid fling?” There was a raw note of sarcasm to her tone, and Scout realized abruptly that her voice was a little choked. “Like I don’t get lonely, like I’ve never done anything like this before. This was supposed to be  _easier_ ,  _you_  were supposed to make this  _easy_.”

 _Oh god she’s mad why is she mad I always **knew**  I was going to fuck this up, oh god  **damn it**._  Scout hadn’t moved from the bed, afraid to make her angrier, more afraid he’d already made her hurt and pretty sure he was only ever going to make things worse by saying anything, but it wasn’t like he’d  _ever_  been able to keep his goddamn idiot mouth shut. “Make  _what_  easy? I ain’t ever known you’re the kinda girl who–who does the hook-up thing, I–”

Her shoulders slumped abruptly and she turned away again, tugging her dress on and making a beeline for the door. “Forget it. Just–look, I made a mistake. This was a mistake. I’m sorry. Scout, just forget about it. Okay?”

“I don’t wanna  _forget about it_. Miss Pauling–”

But she’d already slipped through the door, and there was a terrible finality to the sound of it closing.

 


	4. fire escape

The last time anyone had used the fire escape down from the attic, it had been four years ago, and it had been a repairman, replacing a broken second-floor window. He had mentioned, in passing, that the structure could probably do to be rebuilt. Kitty had agreed, made a mental note to have it looked at, and then forgotten it entirely. It had been subjected to wind and rain and baking sun, and possibly Scout just had more sense than he’d had in the six odd years since he’d had occasion to climb down it. If it had come to a case of actually needing to escape a fire, probably the old staircase was only somewhat less hazardous than a burning building. He was at least nervous as he clambered out the attic window and gingerly put his weight on the old set of stairs. But not as nervous about falling as he was about climbing down safely.

Because it was past midnight and Scout had been lying awake since sundown, staring at the ceiling and mentally torturing himself for stupidity. He couldn’t stand it any longer. Probably she was asleep, she had work in the morning. Miss Pauling always had work in the morning, even on the days, weeks, months he got to take off. But he wasn’t ever going to get this chance again, and it mattered too much not to at least try.

So, down the rickety old stairs, to the slope of the roof outside her second floor window. His bare feet had picked up a couple of splinters from the rough, half-rotten/half-brittle wood, and it was a relief to reach the relative safety of the shingled roof. It took Scout a further five minutes to work up the nerve to rap his knuckles lightly on the window.

He’d given it up for hopeless and was about to clamber back onto the fire escape, when there was the movement of the curtains on the other side of the window, and the sash scraped upward. She didn’t look like she’d been sleeping either, but she’d swapped the summer dress for a soft silk nightgown, plain pale violet. Her hair was loose over her shoulders, and she’d put her glasses on just that little bit crookedly. Miss Pauling looked him up and down, still in his jeans and his old t-shirt, perched on the roof outside her window. She sighed and leaned against the window frame, folding her arms over her chest. Before she could say anything, Scout cut in.

“D'you never wanna talk t'me again? Say so, if you don’t. ‘Cuz I’d understand, y'know, so just say the word an’ I’ll fuck right off.”

“I don’t want that.” Her voice was soft and sad, and Scout winced a little. “But I kind of told you to forget about it. I said I was sorry. I made a mistake.”

Scout adjusted himself carefully into a seated position, shifting his weight so he sat further up the slope of the roof, nearer the wall outside her room. “Yeah, well. I helped. C'mon, Miss Pauling, if you don’t wanna just tell me t'fuck off, then we gotta talk. We ain’t just not ever gonna _talk_  about this again. That ain’t fair.”

Her answering laugh was faint, self-directed. “Oh god. Not fair for whom? It would make my life easier if we didn’t.”

“Well, it’d make  _my_  life hell, so give a guy a break. Today was just… _God_.” He trailed off, rubbed a hand through his hair and heaved a breath. “I mean…Miss Pauling, I ain’t never done anything like today. You said, y'know, skip all the boring, awkward shit, an’ I said sure, 'cuz I never figured on…on a day like that. You’re just–you’re  _amazing_ , Miss Pauling, I ain’t anywhere near your league. You ain’t supposed to be serious 'bout a guy like me. Seems like maybe I can’t handle it.”

She’d ducked her head beneath the bottom edge of the window, to sit halfway on the sill. The streetlights were dim in the back alley, but her face was still lovely and soft, framed by her dark hair. “You were doing fine. Honestly, there wasn’t any reason to overthink it. It’s just a fling, it’s not supposed to be complicated.” Her tone was conciliatory, maybe a little hopeful, like there might be something salvageable about of the wreck of the evening. “This is just supposed to be temporary. Remember?”

Scout shrugged and leaned back against the wall, not looking at her as he asked, “That’s really all you want? Just…you go that far, an’ you figure it won’t mean nothin’?”

“It hasn’t before.” Before he can object, Miss Pauling’s already continued, “Look, I meant it, when I said I thought it would be easier with you. I do this. It’s the only way I  _can_  do this, I show up in some city I’ve never been, and I do my job. And I find the person who irritates me the least, and I just…I cut to the chase. I find someone who doesn’t need all the preamble, who doesn’t need to get to know me or date me or be serious about me, and–” She shrugged and gestured, something ambiguous and brief, like she was embarrassed. “I get lonely. The Badlands are lonely. My job is lonely.”

He turned to look over at her, framed in the darkness of the bedroom window, and chewed his lower lip, uncertain. “Ain’t meanin’ for this to sound personal or nothin’ like that, but it’s just I don’t  _get it_. I can’t imagine doin’ a thing like that an’ not feelin’ lonelier than before. Just hookin’ up with random guys, an’ then nothin’ ever again after? God. Why?”

Her eyebrows arched and her mouth twisted slightly, frowning, as her eyes hardened. “Like I don’t hear about what you get up to in Teufort,” Miss Pauling retorted, her voice gaining an edge of sarcasm. “That’s a nice double-standard you’ve got there, I really appreciate it.”

If anyone else had gotten on his case about it, Scout would have risen to the bait, blown off any notion that the sort of screwing around he did in the Badlands was anything  _but_  the sort of reckless, empty sort of thing that stupid idiots his age were  _supposed_  to do. It would be a lie, though, and something he never would have expected to have in common with Miss Pauling. “Well. First off, I ain’t sure who’d figure on it bein’ any of your business, but I dunno, maybe it is. Security reasons, or whatever. Second, it ain’t….it ain’t like you’re doin’, or anyway I don’t think so. So I know a few girls in Teufort, that ain’t–I mean, it ain’t like we all don’t know the score. These’re  _friends_ , they ain’t just chicks I pick up wherever, Miss Pauling. But you an’ me–I ain’t ever known what  _we_ are, an’ doin’ a thing like this…hell. I don’t even know your  _name_. I ain’t in your league, maybe, but that don’t feel right to me.”

Miss Pauling shrugged, and one of the straps of her nightgown slid free down her shoulder, still rosy with that almost-sunburn. “It’s Nora. Well, Eleanor, but anybody who knows my name calls me Nora. And I thought you and I were at least friends by now.” Miss Pauling drew her knees up to her chest, perching on the windowsill properly now, her bare skin smooth and pale and drawing the eye irresistibly to the hem of her nightdress. This was embroidered with tiny violets and Scout wished that he could have been just a bit less of the sort of person who couldn’t stop staring. He knew her just a little bit better now, and it made it a little easier to look up and meet her eyes, attempt a smile.

“Eleanor. Um, Nora, I mean. Nora Pauling. Pretty name either way. Mine’s Rory. Uh, Savage. But I guess you know that.”

Well, of course she did. “I’ve always liked Scout better. Seems like it suits you. And it keeps things professional.” Her lips quirked a little at the sides, wry.“So, it’s Nora.  _Now_  will you fuck me?”

Her tone of voice made it sound ilke a joke, even if made a little bitterly, but for some reason Scout couldn’t help but take her seriously. Cautiously, he shifted a little closer across the slope of the roof, to really get a look at her, try and read her expression. “…that really all you want?”

“It’s all I get. I  _told_  you–”

He shook his head, tenacious now. “Nah, c'mon. That ain’t what I asked. Forget the Badlands, forget your job an’ my job. A day like we had, an’ you want that just not to be anything? Really?”

This seemed to have struck a nerve and her voice was soft, uncertain. “I don’t know. I don’t know what you mean, I–”

Scout shot her a look that, probably for the first time in their relationship, reversed their roles and shut her up. “Are you more like you when you’re  _here_ , or back in the Badlands? 'Cuz I known you in the Badlands for a long damn time, an’ you  _know_  I like you, but I ain’t ever thought we might actually work out before today.” He glanced away, down the back alley, with its pools of golden light and the distant view of traffic passing at the street at the end. Scout shook his head, exhaling a long breath. “Look, it ain’t that I don’t think you’re sexy as hell, an’ if you–if you weren’t  _you_ , it’d be different. But I guess I’m kinda old-fashioned 'bout this shit, when it matters. When it’s important, Miss Pauling–since it’s you, I’d just kinda like it better if it didn’t mean  _nothing_.”

“It wouldn’t,” her voice had grown small, and her hand reaching out for his in the dark was tentative, just her fingertips brushing his arm. “It really wouldn’t, it would mean the world. I know it seems cold, but it really is all I’ve got. Just–I always try to find someone who’ll just  _touch_ me, just so I don’t have to feel so separate from everything all the time. Lonely. I really did hope it would be easier, if it was you. Since we’ve known each other so long, since you  _do_  like me, I thought it might be something…something better than what I usually settle for. But if you don’t want–”

Scout looked up, interrupted before she could finish, “If this is the only shot I’m gonna get, then I ain’t gonna turn you down. Hell. I oughta be happy. S'just this ain’t ever…well. Guess this ain’t ever really what I wanted.”

“I’m sorry,” Miss Pauling said again, quiet and sad. And then haltingly, like she wasn’t quite sure of the words she wanted, “I’m really sorry, Scout. It’s–if things were different, I’d be lucky to have you. Today was–I never have days like today. Thank you, and I do mean that. I’m sorry I took it so badly, w-when I thought–when you didn’t want…” She faltered, paused and shrugged her shoulders again.

He shrugged, looked away again. “I just wanted to slow down some. You wanna get things goin’ on accounta you don’t think you got time–well, this is all the time it seems like we’re gonna get. Guess I just wanna make it last.”

Her fingers slid downward, resting on top of his and tightening gently. “It really does mean a lot,” she said again. “Even if it’s only for a while, there’s not usually any room in my life for anyone to…to be with me. I just like to pretend for a while.”

This made him wince visibly. “Aw, jeez. Miss Pauling, c'mon. Y'say it like that; it makes me feel like I’m the asshole here. I ain’t meant to shut you down or nothin’. I think you’re goddamn goregous an’ smart an’ I ain’t ever thought I’d be this lucky. Me an’ you. I oughta be glad we’re doin’ anything at all.”

“I don’t have time to get close to anyone, my job makes it unwise. I shouldn’t even have let it get this far, with  _you_  especially. It’s safer with strangers. If the Administrator found out…”

Scout grinned, sniffed derisively, “Screw 'er. She gives you any trouble, I’ll  _quit_. 'Cuz that ain’t fair, MIss Pauling. The old bat doesn’t  _own_  you.”

The terms of Miss Pauling’s contract were a little muddy on that front, actually, but the sentiment made her smile. It was a warm enough night, but a breeze had risen, made her shiver, made her come to a decision. “Come inside?” she invited. “We can slow down. I’m sorry I rushed this. If all you want for now is more of what today was, then that’s already better than I could have hoped for. I’d like that.” When he didn’t answer immediately, she paused. “…are we okay?” she asked hesitantly.

It was a moment more before Scout pushed himself up, and she slipped down off the window sill, to let him duck inside. His hands caught hers and that soft, secret place where she allowed herself to feel close to people came to life with warmth and hope again. Thrilling with that urgent desire to yield, when his hands buried in her hair and he kissed her, before drawing back and meeting her gaze, with his answer. “Yeah. I ain’t sure we’re still  _gonna_  be after this is all over, but for now–yeah. Y'know what, let’s be okay. Whatever the hell this is, we’ll work it out in the morning.”


	5. reverberating

The mattress sagged in the middle with the weight of both of them, gravity pulling them close, together in the little hollow of worn down springs and loosely tangled bedsheets. The pretense that the whole situation wasn't all new and fresh and slightly nervewracking had been stripped away.

No more pretending she was a girl with a boyfriend, instead of a woman with a yawning, empty place inside, that craved only the semblance of closeness. No way to deny the fact that she was going to have to see him again, after the end of it. Nothing more to keep things going than the definitive choice to _make_ it be okay.

Miss Pauling wasn't the one who'd made it. Scout had made the call, and he'd been the one to kiss her gently, almost chastely. Then he'd drawn her over to the bed with its thrown back blankets and bedsheets, and settled down in the hollow of the mattress beside her. There'd been another perfunctory kiss on the nose, and then he'd closed his eyes and murmured good night. Slow things down. Be okay. Sort it out in the morning.

So, sleeping together. New territory. Miss Pauling slept _around_ , she didn't sleep _with_ people. So she found herself tentative, uncertain of the new terms of engagement. Curled on her side, next to someone she'd actually been _straddling_ , not all that long ago. Twice, in less than two hours, teasing the first time and intently serious the second, needing and demanding and taking. Now--well. Now she found herself not quite shy, but almost bashful. Like her former eagerness was something to be embarrassed by, ashamed of.

And yet, somehow deep in the middle of the anxiety and the unshakeable fear that she was making a mistake, there was a certain sort of niceness to letting someone else be in charge. A certain new kind of curiosity, in taking it slow.

Passive, for lack of any better idea of what to do, Miss Pauling had let Scout's hands go wherever they wanted to. One wanted to rest on her hip, almost at the small of her back. The other wanted to tangle gently in her hair, loose on the pillow beneath her head. He hadn't pulled her close to close the distance between them. Still at arm's length.

But still nice. New. But nice.

Still shy, still not sure of what the rules were supposed to be, Miss Pauling shifted carefully on the mattress, scooted herself closer, deeper into the hollow in the middle of the mattress. Scout slept through every one of her carefully calculated, hesitant manouvers. He didn't stir in the slightest as she adjusted herself closer and closer, until she was sharing his pillow, until she'd closed that arm's length of distance. He slept right through it. Only the semblance of closeness.

There was moonlight through the still-open window, casting the room in pale blue monochrome. The curtains wafted softly in the breeze and distantly came the ever-present sounds of the city. The sheets on the bed were old, soft cotton, And Miss Pauling couldn't seem to close her eyes on the face of someone she'd never _really_ known, in the five years that she'd known him.

Miss Pauling never would have figured Scout for a cuddler.

Cuddling wasn't really in the sphere of what Miss Pauling _did_ with the all but anonymous people she made her brief connections with, whenever she was out on assignment. Whether she made whoever she'd slept with leave, or just left herself, her encounters with whoever-it-happened-to-be-that-time always began and ended with the sex. Anything else was too intimate, too personal and not what she _wanted_ out of the exchange.

Or, anyway, that was what she'd always told herself.

But now--

It was surprising, how different he could be, separate from the world of blood and death and violence that she'd always thought was his native environment. _Her_ native environment, the world that followed her wherever she went.

Maybe she could still pretend, a little bit, that she could slip sideways out of that world for a while, and be a person whose hands held and touched and stroked and caressed, instead of shot and killed and maimed and murdered.

One of her unclean hands found Scout's heartbeat and pressed against his chest, a slow, resting pulse beneath her fingertips. The other slid around his waist, tucked her fingers into the waistband of his jeans and the ridge of his hipbone. And she pulled herself close, tucked all her smallness up against him and hoped she hadn't been wrong to do so.

And then he stirred, yawned and murmured and stretched a little, and the hand that he'd laid upon her hip slid upward, over the soft, smooth fabric of her nightgown. His fingers splayed out between her shoulder blades and his arm curled around her and drew her in. Scout pulled her right into the hollow of his chest, so her face could nestle right up against his throat and where his lips could find her forehead and kiss her, sleepily, before dropping back off with a soft sigh.

And Miss Pauling, sleeping with someone for the first time, closed her eyes in warmth and security and closeness, and melted into sleep.

* * *

Slowness. Sweet, creeping slowness, like the light of dawn moving its subtle warmth through the open window, a bright golden patch on the sagging old mattress.

At some point in the course of the night, Miss Pauling had become little spoon, possibly for the first time in her life.

Little spoon seemed too innocent a term, when the bigger spoon had wound an arm around her torso, and cradled the weight of one of her breasts in his palm, pleasantly warm through the soft fabric of her nightgown. Miss Pauling had drawn her legs up, just slightly, and Scout's calf was caught between her knees, soft denim smooth against her skin. The backside of her thighs pressed against the frontside of his, warm and firm and muscular.

Waking up slowly to the faint sound of breathing in her ear, finding Scout's hand tucked beneath the pillow as her fingers drifted drowsily upward, and curled around the base of his thumb, sliding into his palm, before she was awake enough to realise they'd done so. Squeezing the calloused place between his thumb and forefinger, feeling his hand twitch slightly before he squeezed back.

And then--that other hand, the one gently cupping her breast, waking up and drawing long, agile fingers along the curve of the fabric, fingertips pulling just slightly at the flesh of her nipple beneath it. Expert, unexpected, tightening the skin into erection, and the pad of his thumb circling, teasing the point of it, even as a gasping breath stole into her lungs.

Her back arched just slightly, just enough for her buttocks to press back against him, to feel that unmistakeable morning hardness through his jeans. The leg threaded between hers drew upward, pulled her further against his chest, even as she turned her face to find Scout's lips teasing at the base of her her neck, near the beginning of the curve of her shoulder.

There weren't words. Even as his hand around her breast opened again, the palm of it warm and softening the tautness of her skin as he squeezed and carefully, softly kneaded the weight of it. Miss Pauling turned over, unable to help it, turned into him with a rustle of the sheets and found his face above hers. Scout's jaw lightly stubbled, his eyes meeting hers for a fraction of a moment as she shifted herself upward, aching to kiss him.

And doing so, deeply and to a warm reception. Lips and teeth and tongues; clumsy, sleepily at first, and then searching and deep and intense, finding a rhythm. Compatibility. Scout’s hand trailing down her back and catching beneath her thighs, to pull her close once more. Miss Pauling’s back arching again, tilting her hips to push herself into him, and that thrill of pressure, pushing back.

A faint, soft sound of pleasure and then, stealing up from the back of her mind, a cold spike of worry as she drew back, met his eyes. "Too fast?"

"Nah." His hands in her hair, catching and cradling her face, his thumb along the line of her jaw. And, maybe a little smugly, "S'different, ain't it, when it ain't you just jumpin' my bones outta nowhere."

"It wasn't out of nowhere," Miss Pauling protested softly, even as his tongue slipped between her teeth to stifle the argument, teasing that throaty little moan from the very heart of her again. Emboldened, she caught his lip, bit just slightly when he started to pull away. Let him go, met blue, blue eyes again, and smiled a little.

He grinned back, crooked and bucktoothed and endearing-- _impossibly_ , dangerously--endearing. His thumb touched the corner of her lips, swiping just the barest hint of saliva gently across her cheek before kissing her again, deeper still, making her swallow the breath she wanted to take. Left her breathless again, only for a moment before her voice came back, breathy and accusing.

"You just like to be in charge."

"Might be part of it. Might be y'kinda come on real damn strong an' I'm an old fashioned kinda guy. 'member how I said that? I like knowin' where I stand, maybe." And then rising, as she turned onto her back to sink against the creaking springs of the mattress, one of his knees pressed against her thigh as he straddled her, holding his weight back, above her as he bent to kiss her again. "I think maybe you ain't always gotta be the boss, though, y'know?"

His fingers caught the sheerness of the top of the bodice of her nightgown, tugging it gently down to expose her breast. Shifting downward and bowing his face, kissing the curve of her skin before his lips closed over the nipple. His other hand pulled her other breast free, the skin of her areola already tightening in the breeze through the window. The warmth of his palm closed over it, massaging again, gentle and strong and melting her from the inside out.

And then she felt the stiffness of the denim pressing against the soft, yielding cotton of her panties, felt warmth and wetness and that magnetic pull from the very depth of her, even as he drew upward and away and cut off contact. Felt his fingertips drifting upwards, beneath her night gown, then trailing softly down the side of her torso. His thumbs lingered over her hipbones, the upper ridge of the illiac crest, anatomy she'd learned and knew by name for no reason other than the thoroughness that went with knowing how to properly dismember a body.

Miss Pauling's brain seemed not quite to know where to go, disconnecting and floating and seeking something familiar, in the strangeness of being in the moment. Separate the torso from the hips. Sever the spine. Break the legs into four manageable pieces. Legs. Involuntarily her knees bent, the front of her thighs touching the back of his, straddling her.

Scout's fingers slipped beneath the elastic of her underwear, the side tight to the highest part of the curve of her thigh, where it had left a dimpled imprint in her skin. And then his hand turning at the wrist, so the back of his knuckles dragged over the soft thatch of hair, pulling the fabric of her underwear away from her skin, loosening them, sliding downward.

Abruptly she became aware of her hands, her arms lying at her sides, how completely she'd yielded. It seemed like she should be doing something. Uncertain, fumbling, one hand going to the waist of her panties, the other hand to the waist of his jeans.

And having the latter pulled away, pinned gently by the wrist to the tangle of bedsheets and the mattress beneath him, even as Scout's forefinger slid inside, and found her wetter and slicker than even she'd expected. He kissed her again, but her lips had parted involuntarily. Miss Pauling failed to kiss him back and had her lower lip caught and teased and bitten gently for her inattention. Caught off guard by sudden, expert and exquisite pressure, the pad of his fingertip circling her clit and setting a shudder through her core. Arcing into the palm of his hand at the top of her mound, pressing herself into the expert way his finger hooked, slipped gentle and rhythmic against the slickness of her arousal.

Finding the wherewithal to draw the breath she kept failing to take, and almost before she'd filled her lungs, the improbable sweetness of his lips on hers again. His tongue deep in her mouth before she could stifle a moan of the most unbelievably anguished longing.

And then that tragically unfamiliar feeling of falling upwards, of rising and sinking at once, _needing_ the pressure of his fingertip inside her, gasping and moaning and throwing her head backwards against the pillows as her hips canted upwards. Crying aloud as the rhythm grew exponentially faster, like he could feel the urgency of what _she_ felt. And maybe he could, _surely_ he could, the tension all through her, like a string drawn taut and plucked, reverberating. The pressure of his hand on her wrist tightening as her fingers spasmed.

The clock at the bedside ticked the last second away from six-thirty in the morning, and the silver sound of alarm bells ringing swallowed the last of her voice, her half-screaming, half-gasping climax, as Scout's fingertip slid outward, caressed the warm, swelling bud of pleasure one final time.

The ringing continued, even as Scout pushed himself up, reached out to flick the alarm off. She trembled on the bed beneath him, trying to remember how to breathe. Trying to remember if she spoke English, trying to figure out if she was smiling back at his cocky, grin, as he licked the forefinger of his left hand, and then lowered himself back down beside her, caught her face and kissed her. Kept kissing her. Kissed her until she kissed him back, her fingers trembling, as she held his face in her hands.

He spoke first, because she wasn't sure if she'd ever speak again, "Still need that ride to work?"


End file.
